


Last Night's Haul

by Helicon



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodborne fic but with Alien inspiration, Body Horror, Eggs, Emetophilia, Gen, Oviposition, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helicon/pseuds/Helicon
Summary: It's the kind of monster you don't see on a Hunt and you're so much better off for it anyway.





	Last Night's Haul

**Author's Note:**

> eat slugs, Soren. Uncle Helicon's having a Theme Night.
> 
> I wrote this like a year ago lmao it's just been sitting here and now is as good a time as any

Soren awakens in the street, sprawled over a sewer cover and facing the sky. Everything from his jaw to the bottom of his ribcage is sore, probably bruised, and sitting upright dizzies him to the point of nearly passing out once more. His clothes are torn in some places, specked with his own blood, and some foul-smelling black fluid. One glove is missing, and he braces himself with that hand as he swipes some of the strange substance off his coat with the other.

He swallows, trying to alleviate some of the pain in his throat, but in vain as the sudden internal motion makes his stomach lurch and burn. Barely keeping down the impending vomit, Soren flips himself over and hoists himself onto all fours, breathing heavily through his mouth.

This isn't the first time he's come out of a sewer or a Chalice a little worse for wear. He’ll make it through this.

Finally standing after a ten minute battle with himself, he sets off for home -- but is stopped, interrupted by a roiling feeling inside him, a much stronger urge to be sick right there on the cobblestones. The daylight stings his eyes, but the air is cool on his rapidly warming skin, prompting him to uncover as much of it as possible: removing his coat, overshirt, everything down to the singlet shedded like an ailing bird’s feathers. He sits with his back against a wall, staring up into the clouds, suddenly struck breathless. Despite the chill, he is feverish, sweat beading on the back of his neck and turning his skin from a dark olive to a deep red.

Soren prods at his middle in irritation, hoping that maybe that would fix the fact that every single organ in there must have been flipped upside down to make him feel so damned awful, but all it does is hurt.

Hurt like a strike by a blunt heavy object, of course, and alert him to a much more pressing, frightening matter; namely that despite typically fitting rather loosely and even needing a belt, his pants were just shy of cutting into flesh.

He ducks into an alley, sweating and swearing profusely, but to do what, he isn't entirely sure. Panic? Finally let himself vomit if that would help this? Kill himself before whatever this was could do it on its own? Because surely that is what happens when all of a sudden something takes root inside a body unable to host it. Whatever it is, it looks like he’s swallowed a small melon, and when he breathes, it's shallow out of fear that he might split open were he to breathe any deeper.

In the time he takes to do absolutely nothing, his waistband seems to tighten further and prompts the second. Another upwards lurch throws him back on his knees, retching like a cat coughing up a hairball, making conscious effort not to scream, to simply sound like a drunk recovering from his bender and not draw any attention to himself.

The memory of the creature that had attacked him and outright eviscerated his partner the previous night resurfaces -- long-limbed, slimy, looking like a squid and a spider had a baby and left that baby in a swamp for several years. It scuttled out of the muck and attacked like any predator, from behind, ripping into Vaska with its teeth and fangs before he had his weapon drawn. When it went for Soren’s face faster than he could reload his pistol, he had blacked out, only to awaken…

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, shit, shit…” No briefing on this kind of creature whatsoever, no idea if this is the natural progression of events.

He jams two fingers down his throat, the other hand wrapped around his middle and feeling for any potentially fatal changes. The response he gets is a brief muscle spasm, and the feeling of some small, hard lumps moving just a bit upwards. That just about does it; as he draws both fingers out, a stream of inky black follows into a dull puddle on the ground.

A laugh equal in dullness escapes afterwards. He isn't quite sure why.

Immediately after, his entire upper body knots up in cramps he can't begin to compare, and so suddenly something solid and heavy is brought about by another heave, putting Soren back on hands and knees and attempting to enable its exit further by leaning downwards. It strains his jaw in the process, making a concerning crackling noise, but eventually a solid spherical mass plops into the oily puddle before him, along with more fluids. He estimates it to be about the size of a peach pit before another starts to come up, cutting off his breathing for the time it takes -- arguably shorter than the first, but still agonizingly long.

If he truly had the desire to lose any dignity, he would have called for help a long time ago, because the pace at which the rest make their exit is far more rapid than he can reasonably cope with. One after the other, bulging out his neck, making him feel far sicker than he is. Tears form in the corners of his eyes, he gasps for breath between heaves, both hands ball into fists as a far more possible alternative to biting his lips.

He swallows once, out of reflex, and regrets it immediately -- one goes down, but the spasm it causes leads Soren to think for a moment that he is, without a doubt, about to die there. It comes back up without a problem, but at the same time with him collapsing onto the ground, curled up on himself like a dead plant.

The pile slowly grows beneath his head, sapping his energy but at the same time demanding more of it. Hiccups seem to bring forth slightly smaller ones, but more at a time; a nightmarish conglomerate that feel quite a bit like bubbles.

Once the stream has stopped for about ten minutes, Soren considers it over. His pants still feel abnormally tight, his center of gravity awkwardly shifted back and forth in a short period of time and setting him just a little off-balance, but he only wants for it to be over with. So he uses a barrel as leverage to stand up with--

\--and then a veritable flood of the same dark substance, perhaps a little thicker in composition, forces its way out of his mouth and nose, straight into the barrel itself.

On trembling legs, after two, three final dry heaves, he hoists himself fully upright again, throws down a molotov and sets the lumpy-looking puddle ablaze. He trudges off, no evidence left of his ordeal, except the gear he never bothers to pick back up and the sour stench of cleansing flame.


End file.
